Hellmouth on Liberty Av
by shrewface
Summary: Xander has been assigned to protect a new Hellmouth in Pittsburgh with none other than Spike - a Hellmouth situated beneath gay club Babylon. Slash. X over with Queer as Folk US. Rating for swearing.
1. Chapter One

_**Chapter One **_

"No. Goddamn. Way." Xander stated flatly, folding his arms across his chest. Jenna raised a pierced eyebrow.

"It's funny - you say that like you have a choice in the matter," she said sweetly, shifting on the park bench with an elegant poise that looked strange on the girl with dreadlocks, more than one piercing and various tattoos. Xander pulled his coat tighter to him, shuddering as he watched white mist come out of his mouth when he breathed. Fucking Pittsburgh and it's lousy, stinking, freezing October weather when Jenna had a cushy surveillance job in Hawaii. She probably landed it because of her 'thing' with the Boss. Bitch. Bitter? Him? Never!

"You can't be serious," he stated flatly, rubbing his freezing hands together in a futile attempt to warm them. "Did you even discuss this with the Boss? Oh, never mind I can just hear your argument. Send the poof in to baby sit the new hellmouth – he won't mind working in a sleazy gay club where he'll feel right at home!" Xander said resentfully, throwing his hands in the air. He blinked, wondered whether he'd just referred to himself as a 'poof' and decided he was spending _way_ to much time with Spike.

"You've been working in this firm for five years and every year you piss and whine about your assignment. So what are you going to do now, Harris? Complain to your union?" Jenna shot back, who was now discreetly pouring whisky into the cup of steaming coffee she held in her hand. Fucking Starbucks with their tasty warm coffee and long lines and stupid goddamn mocha latte things that made him stay twitchy for hours. "Besides," Jenna continued, looking like she was enjoying this _way_ to much, "this isn't my decision. The order comes straight from the top. The Boss wants to keep an eye on this Hellmouth. We didn't know it was smack bang on top of a gay night-club now did we? Believe it or not, the universe doesn't revolve around the fact that you're as gay as a tangerine, so why don't you grow a pair? You and Spike were picked because you've already dealt with Hellmouth shit ..."

"Wait. Spike is going to be here too? Again?!" Xander interrupted. Jenna pinched the bridge of her nose,

"Yeah. I told you. Wolfram & Hart, Mr. Angel's people, they like to keep tabs on all our our open investigations. He's their key player," she said,eyes fixed on a grey squirrel that satin a tree opposite them. She licked her lips. Xander felt uncomfortable. "You two will be posing as lovers. Again.The Boss already worked it out with the owner of the club and Mr. Angel.You're tending bar and Spike is posing as an eccentric, manager who sorts out music for the club and just happens to be fucking you," she said, a slightly malicious grin spreading across her features.

"This is unbelievable." Xander moaned, running his hands through his hair. This would be the third time he and Spike would have to pose as a couple during an undercover investigation. Typical. Just typical.

"What's unbelievable is that you two have faked being a couple _twice _on the job, for exceptionally long periods of time, and you didn't shag _once. _I mean, I know he's an annoying, blood sucking fiend but _come on, _I see you two ogling each other all the time. Just get it over with, the sexual tension is crippling," Jenna said, acting as though she were completely oblivious to Xander's glare.

"Everyone knows you have a thing for The Boss," Xander retaliated childishly. Jenna flipped him the birdie. "Grouchy this morning, aren't we? That time of the month, again?" Xander asked snidely. Snidely becase, hello, he'd been forced to hang out with Spike, who was the King of Snidedom.

"Go scew yourself, Harris," she snarled.

Ah, Xander amended that perhaps 'that time of the month' hadn't been the best phrase to pick when talking to a werewolf.

"Here's everything you need to know, including your new identity. Certificates, passports, the works. Noah gave Spike all his info too. He's being briefed and will meet you in the Liberty diner in a few minutes. So, remember, act like a couple from the moment you walk in. He'll know what the deal is. Stay a while, get something to eat, make sure the locals see you two nice and cosy before you go off to your new apartment," she paused and almost looked sympathetic at Xander's wince. Almost. "The addresses you'll need are in the file … you start as of now. And don't look so pissed off about the whole thing, you're getting paid twice what I am for this job," she said, pulling an alarmingly thick grey folder from her back-pack and shoving it onto his lap.

She stood and picked up her things, moving away. Xander nodded goodbye and watched her stride towards the road, ignoring the curious looks shot her way. She paused and turned, looking thoughtful, "Shag him at least _once _this time!" she called, blowing him a kiss before leaving. She could be a sadistic bitch – one whom he'd grudgingly grown to admire and trust. Even though she could get _really _annoying.

Xander wondered vaguely whether he should be worried that his toes were now growing numb in the cold.

He looked down at the file in his hands and sighed, opening it just enough so he could read the address. Liberty diner was on, no prizes for guessing this brain teaser, Liberty avenue. So. He stood and decided to walk to the diner, wanting to move about and clear his head before he arrived at his destination. He tried to put the newest batch of information into some sort of order. He was going to a diner on Liberty Street,before setting off to his new home above a hellmouth, in Pittsburgh. He was also going to be left alone for an indefinite time with Spike and pretend they're a couple - and yeah they were sort of friends now, but there was a limit to how much one can stand of the bleached vamp. Their mission: to baby-sit a dormant Hellmouth beneath a gay night-club where he was to pose as an innocuous bar tender. Just another day in the life of Xander Harris, employee of the well respected private investigators of all things creepy, _Fanghorn and Burks©_.

He made a mental note to ask for a pay rise. Maybe he could find aa Carclops demonto kill for a Christmas bonus or something.

Before long, Xander stood before the door of Liberty diner. It wasn't a bad place, pleasant and cheerful enough to make Spike uncomfortable. So, there was a plus. He stepped inside and was grateful to be out of the cold, spotting Spike's platinum locks in the back corner booth straight away. He was well dressed and groomed despite the flight, with a dark purple tank top on and his usual leather duster and black jeans. Xander walked over, remembering to assume his new alias. His altered name: Alex Crocus. Spike's? Well, he'd done enough under cover jobs with Spike to know he always stuck with his nickname, regardless of the warnings and reprimands for not following procedure. "Hey," he said, flopping down on the seat opposite with a 'thunk'. Spike grinned.

"Hello, Alex. Did Jenna tell you what your new occupation is?" He asked gleefully. Xander heaved another sigh and let his head drop onto the table. Spike clucked his tongue and petted Xander's hair. "Poor boy. Not feeling too well?" he asked, trying to sound compassionate. Hah. Spike and compassion. Two mutually exclusive words.

"Honey, is he alright?" a woman's voice asked from next to him. Waitress. Xander wanted coffee. Black coffee and sugary doughy things. The only problem was he couldn't lift his head. So he grunted and waved.

"Alex'll be fine, pet. Just a bit a but of jet lag. One black coffee and one tea, please," Spike replied, laying on the cockny accent thicker than it ever was when he was talking alone.

"Sure thing. Anything else, Spike?" the woman asked, using the nickname almost teasingly. Ah, so Spike had already made introductions. Xander could hear the smile in her voice. Damn Spike and his stupid English charm.

"Uh, what would you like Alex?" he asked, sickly sweet, his voiec grating on Xander's already freyed nerves. Xander opened his mouth, but was unable to stop a yawn from escaping and thumped his head back onto the table. "Sorry about him. Doesn't like flying - we just got in from a holiday in London. You'd think he'd be glad to get home," Spike said, his voice tinged with exasperation as he stroked the back of Xander's neck. Xander decided they were getting way too good at this. "He'll also have a cinnamon roll," Spike said, petting Xander's hair again. Xander narrowed his eyes. Spike knew he was slightly allergic to cinnamon but would eat it anyway because he liked them, and would suffer with indigestion later. Evil bastard.

"No problem sweetie," the woman said before Xander heard her shoes squeaking away.

"Ta," Spike called, waiting until she was out of earshot. Spike's hand withdrew and he leant in so that he was next to Xander's ear.

"What's wrong with you? One too many Shirley Temples last night?" Spike asked mockingly. Aha. That was the Spike Xander knew and … tolerated.

"Fuck off, Spike. I think I may be coming down with something." Xander muttered, his voice muffled. He could almost feel Spike rolling his eyes.

"With what? Bubonic plague? Influenza? Syphilis? Oh, please, tell me it's syphilis. Brighten up a bored vampire's day," Spike asked cheerfully. Xander dragged himself to a sitting position and narrowed his eyes.

"We made a deal. No syphilis jokes from you, and I won't make any jokes about really bad and romantic poems _someone _used to write." Xander said threateningly. He fondly treasured his memory of the night Spike got rotten drunk and recited poetry that he'd written as a mortal for three hours before passing out onto the floor. Ah, bliss.

"Bad tempered little sod, aren't you?" Spike muttered, fiddling with a sugar packet. Something occurred to him and he looked up, looking animated, "You know how we're supposed to make connections with the locals here, yeah?" He said suddenly, making Xander jump slightly.

"Yes," Xander said warily. Spike had an idea and seemed pleased by it. As a rule, this was never a good thing.

"Well, me and Noah were thinking and we came up with the perfect idea to make friends, fast," Spike continued, making Xander's stomach flip. Noah and Spike often had their 'ingenious' plans, most of which, ended up with Xander getting punched, and someone in jail. "See, Noah is going to come storming in acting as your homophobic brother. He's going to harass us, generally act like an arse and you'll have a scrap. I'll come to your rescue and chuck him out. Voila. Loads of sympathetic fairy friends." Spike said, looking supremely pleased with himself. Xander's eyes widened.

"What? Why am I the one who always gets hit? No. This is never going to work, someone is going to end up in jail like the last time and …"

"Too late." Spike said gleefully when he noted Noah walking through the front door with a baggy t-shirt and a scowl on his face.

Xander flopped his head onto the table. Again.

Noah was in jail and Xander had been punched, as predicted.

"The Boss will bail him out. But I told you it would work, didn't I?" Spike said, grinning as he passed Xander a bottle of antiseptic. Xander ignored him. "Aw, come on Harris, quit being such a baby. It's only a few cuts and scrapes for the cause an' all that," he added eyeing a random painting that hung in their newly assigned apartment.

"Shut. Up. Now." Xander growled, moving the only pointed wooden implement he could find -a salad fork- closer to him as he carefully dabbed at the cut above his eye. The eye that worked.

"And what about that Debbie, eh? Nice bird, that one. She introduced me to a kid who was working there, Justin summat, who offered to show us around," Spike continued, blithely ignoring Xander's order, "I think he fancied me, but then, who could blame the poor boy. My charm is irresistible, after all."

"Spike!" Xander yelled. Spike raised an eyebrow, making Xander want to snap his neck. "I'm going to bed now so I can get a few hours sleep before work. Then I am going to wake up, take a shower and get dressed before getting a cab to the club, Babylon. You are not going to speak to me, poke my cuts, or turn the TV up so it will wake me. You will do whatever it is you do and stay out of my way until tonight where we pretend to be madly in love. Got it?" Xander was using his Dangerous Voice now, the quiet one that made informants shit their pants and tell him anything he wanted. The one he had taken months developing and perfecting.

"Been practicin' that?" Spike asked, eyebrow raised and sporting a look of complete bemusement.

Xander walked to the bedroom and slammed the door behind him so hard that it shuddered on it's hinges.

_**To be continued**_


	2. Chapter Two

_**Chapter Two **_

Xander was used to getting weird looks. Came with the territory. You couldn't expect to walk around with an eye patch and a mother of a scar running across your lip without getting some looks. The receptions were varied – some people tried to stay out of his way, thought the scars indicated a tough guy looking for a fight. Some politely kept their distance, pointedly ignored the scars and treated him with a detached, practiced indifference. Others got too close, eyes raking his body like a new piece of meat. Xander wasn't sure which reaction he should be more bothered by.

However, he hadn't quite expected the barefaced stares and whispers amongst the rest of the staff when his new boss introduced him to the group in a meeting a few hours before the club opened. Some of them didn't even bother to whisper.

"… fucking old. He's what? Twenty seven? Thirty? With a fucking _eye-patch_?" one of the dancers was saying to another, slouching in his chair, legs splayed, ignoring the muttered warning of his friend who had noticed Xander watching them intently, "What? We going for a 'pirates' theme now? This place is going to the fucking do …"

"Hey, kid," Xander interjected calmly, hushing the room instantly. "Piece of advise: wait 'till your balls drop before you start insulting the grown ups," he said, raising an eyebrow. Seemed to do the trick. Several of the others laughed and the kid seemed suitably embarrassed. His new boss, who he still didn't know the name of as the guy had stuttered something that he couldn't understand, called the meeting to a close and he was introduced the other bar tender.

"You'll fit in fine. Name's Andy. You've just passed the first initiation rite, teaching _that_ little shit to keep his trap shut," he added, holding out a hand. Xander smiled and shook it.

"Alex. Any more rites of passage I should know about?" he asked.

"Well, you're new in town so it won't take long for Brian Kinney to grab your ass. He's our local Sex God Extraordinaire," Andy replied, a dreamy look on his face.

"He'll have to just wonder about this particular ass. I don't fuck customers," Xander said coolly, because, yeah, he's really cool now. Relatively.

"Oh darling, you don't fuck Brian Kinney,Brian Kinney fucks you!" someone called, causing an eruption of laughter.

"Either way, no can do. My boyfriend is a … possessive sort of guy," Xander said, forcing himself to smile and chanting a comforting mantra in his head : _I hate Spike, I hate Spike, I hate Spike …_

"How long have you been together?" Andy asked, looking a little bit disappointed. Xander scratched the back of his neck, looked into the air, pretended to be counting in his head.

"Spike and me? 'Bout 12 years now," he said. Andy blinked. Opened his mouth. Blinked some more.

"Fuck," he said finally. "I didn't know that was possible. You've been exclusive the whole time?" he asked, looking at Xander as though he had grown a second head.

"Pretty much. When you see him, you'll know why," Xander said with a lopsided grin, pushing his too long hair from his face. _I hate Spike, I hate Sp …_

"So, uh, the eye-patch. That a statement or, uh …" Andy said vaguely, gesturing to his face. Xander smirked, and it was real this time.

"Nope," he said, fighting the temptation to flip it up and let Andy see his sunken eyelid to stop the question that was still to come.

"How did you lose it … if you don't mind me asking?" Xander wondered which of the many explanations for his missing eye he should chose. Once he'd implicated Spike and as fun as it was to see the vampire being dragged by cops, the paperwork that followed had been a bitch.

"Let's just say, when a homophobic asshole says 'let's fight like men. No weapons'... he's lying," Xander shrugged running his hand over his lip for emphasis. The truth behind the lip was a nasty run in with an irate chaos wizard.

"Jesus. Fucking pricks," Andy said disgustedly, shaking his head.

"I don't wear a glass eye because they're uncomfortable," Xander added, cutting off the next question before it was posed to him. It was the first truthful answer he'd given so far. Andy shrugged,

"Whatever, dude. I think it works for you," he said, nodding towards Xander's selected outfit. Tight black jeans and tighter black sleeveless shirt that showed off his muscled arms and the small tattoo on his shoulder blade that showed a said in beautiful Victorian script : **Spike's**– it was really a glamour spell. "You weren't kidding when you said he was possessive, huh?" Andy laughed, nodding towards the tattoo. Xander shrugged,

"Spike belongs to me and I belong to him. Things are simpler that way," he said with practice ease, running his hands over the smooth marble surface of the bar.

"We going to meet this 'Spike' anytime soon?" Andy asked eagerly, tossing Xander a wet cloth to wipe the surface of the bar with.

"He'll be coming tonight after work, if he can," Xander grit his teeth, _I hate Spike, I hate Spike, I hate Spike … _"Let's get started then. Where is the hard liquor?" He asked, abruptly steering the conversation to something he didn't have to think about.

That was the Harris way. Don't like a conversation? Ask where they keep the booze.

_**To Be Continued**_


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Brian was having a shitty day. It had thus far consisted of: a mountain of paperwork, spilling his soy latte on his new Armani shirt, having to run through the pouring, freezing rain, stepping in puddle and having to deal with the useless bit of fluff who was standing in for Cynthia because the bitch had chosen Brian's Bad Day to get sick.

So, he had been looking forward to a nice dinner at Kalzaar's, a new Lebanese restaurant, or perhaps Lana Thai, get some takeaway , call Justin to come over for a nice hard …

And then the phone rang, and he knew his day was well and truly fucked. Mikey – a call he couldn't ignore, whether he wanted to or not. Turned out Mikey was worried about his Ma because there was a brawl at the diner. A brawl. At a diner on Liberty street. Brian had to stop laughing before he could try and reassure him, but it was no use. So. There they sat, at a table in Liberty Diner eating greasy food that would probably give him indigestion later (though he'd die before admitting it), with Mikey's mother sitting opposite him, wig slightly askew. Brian's Bad Day did not show signs of looking up.

"So, nothing was damaged? Are you sure you're alright?" Mikey was asking.

"Queers brawling in public? I'm sure the squealing and bitch-slapping was terrifying," Brian muttered, rolling his eyes. The Novotneys glared.

"I'm fine, sweetie, thank you for asking," she said to Michael, pointedly ignoring Brian completely. It didn't seem to affect him, so she smacked him upside the head and felt much better.

"What was it that happened?" Michael asked.

"The old debate still causing riots? Cher vs. Judy Garland? Or was it Lana Turner vs. … " Brian ducked his head this time, though to no avail.

"Some new guys came in this morning – from England. Spike and Alex, really sweet couple, nice as fucking pie,"

"Spike?" Brian interjected, looking disdainful as images of overweight sweaty men into S&M danced in his head. Debbie pursed her lips and started wiping over the tables as she talked.

"Then this asshole waltzes in, starts shouting abuse at Alex, apparently it's the poor guy's brother, calling him a sicko, a pervert, eternal damnation, blah blah blah, the works," she continued, her eyes narrowing at the memory of the swaggering drunk. Brian's expression darkened – homophobes should be deep fried and fed to rabid squirrels. He blinked, wondered where that little platitude had emerged from and decided he didn't want to know.

"… and Alex just sat there, took it for a good minute or two until the little shithead said something about Spike - his boyfriend - called him a whore, I think. So, Alex stood up but before he could say a word the shit punches him in the gut, no warning! Alex went crashing to the ground, split his forehead on the corner of the table – I was terrified, there was blood running down his face …" Brian thought of Justin's face, his smile before the bat crashed down and the blood poured down his face. With this mental image came the realisation that he had underestimated the fates fury. He had apparently pissed them off, because today? Today was shaping up to be a Really Really Shitty Day.

"… Spike went apeshit, kicked the seven fucking bells out of the prick and tossed him out."

Whilst Brian systematically shredded his napkin, the image of Justin seared into his brain, Debbie was taking out her aggression on the an unfortunate table top, which she had scrubbed with renewed venom.

"Christ. Did you call the police?"

"Alex asked me not to – poor kid was torn up. Said he'd deal with it later," Debbie replied, moving on the next table when she was in danger of wearing down the enamel on the one she had been cleaning.

In the ensuing silence, she poured Brian coffee and Michael a lemon soda - she was worried he was getting too much caffeine, he was worried about going insane and murdering his mother, Brian was worried that the soy latte stain may not come out even if he took it to the dry cleaners. "I introduced them to Sunshine," the dry cleaners? "Alex and Spike. Thought they could use a friendly guide," she added suddenly, causing Brian to tense. His eyes flashed and he looked up furiously.

"You introduced Justin to people who have psychos chasing them? Nice one, Deb," … Brian was going for scathing, but ended up sounding scared. Shit. He sneered for good measure.

"Quit being such a drama queen, I'm sure …"

"Drama Queen? Who dares usurp my crown?" Emmett interrupted, a cute latino man hot on his heels. Emmett turned to him and began the lengthy process of trying to convey 'please fuck off now' to a person who didn't speak English. Brian briefly considered helping Emmett by putting his Spanish to good use – but only considered it very, very briefly. That was when Brian's day got a little bit better.

Facing the door, he could see an attractive man through the windows, walking straight towards the diner – cheekbones to die for, bleach blonde curls, a hugging shirt that showed of an amazing body …

"Spike!" Debbie exclaimed, grabbing the man into a hug as though she'd know him for years. Spike, boyfriend and defender of Alex. Brian grit his teeth and sipped his lukewarm coffee.

"… said he'd show me around tonight. Thought I'd come and tell you Alex is fine, seeing as you worked yourself into such a tizzy 'bout the whole thing," Spike was saying, his cockney drawl near hypnotic as he shrugged off his leather duster to reveal a black vest, and sat on a chair at the counter.

"Tizzy? Ma? What tizzy?" Mikey was asking, brow furrowed at his mother who was now taking away dishes.

"Debbie was a tad worried, s'all. Alex had to go to work, else he'd be here himself. Your mum's a lovely lady," Spike explained smoothly.

"Hear that, Debbie? Ole' English charmer here reckons you're a lovely lady!" Emmett called not looking up from his trained stare at Spike's ass. Spike's eyes flashed to Brian for a moment, cold and grey, making Brian feel every muscle in his body tense up with … what? Fear? Arousal? He didn't know. Spike's gaze shifted across the diner, to Justin who was emerging from the kitchens in clubbing gear. Tight black trousers and a hugging striped t shirt. Something flared in the pit of Brian's stomach, and he shifted in his seat.

"Spike! Hey. How's Alex?" Justin asked as he moved in front of Brian and kissed him briefly, like he did every time Brian came to the diner, almost like a marri … and Brian decided to let that thought end there.

"Was just telling Debbie. He's fine, just a little cut. Gone off to start his new job - lad's tougher than he looks," Spike replied, a small smile on his lips and a fondness and affection in his voice that was sweet.

"Where does he work?" Emmett asked, though he seemed far more intent on Spike's bare arm, the one with the word 'Alex's' emblazoned upon it. Brian hadn't noticed this at first, as he was staring at … other things. A tattoo meant permanence. It may also mean, exclusive. Brian's day went back to being a Really Really Shitty Day.

"Tending bar at a club … Babylon? Been there?"

Brian smiled wryly.

"Once or twice,"

TBC


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Music roared, the floor pounded with a hypnotic bass line, beautiful men writhed in steel cages in time to the beat, the dancers' worshipped leader, _Sex_, was almost a tangible presence in the club as the slicked bodies twisted against one another …

… and Xander wanted to go home, watch some _West Wing_, take a couple painkillers and crawl into bed. Boring? He'd lived through too many apocalypses to want anything more.

Jenna was always trying to bully him into meeting someone when he had time off, and it wasn't as though he didn't take more than one or two men on their offers – but it never lasted more than a night. Who knew? Doughnut boy would one day end up Mr. One Night Stand – it wasn't as though he was unattractive, after all. The mismatched shirts and khaki shorts of his youth were abandoned for obscenely tight jeans and designer tops when he turned 22 … or, as Spike put it, When Harris Realised He'd Never Get A Decent Shag Looking Like A Right Wanker.

Depressingly, Spike was on the right lines.

"Two cosmos," someone yelled over the din and Xander despaired – long gone were the days of beer and Jack. He was in Queer territory now, where there was naught but cosmos and margaritas as far as the eye could see. Money was slapped onto the bar, Xander slid the drinks over, feeling more than a little old as the young man bounced away, high on poppers, E, a good fuck or _something_. The last time Xander had been clubbing when he wasn't on the job was … four years ago? Five?

He found himself yearning for a seat, for his headache to ease, for someone to turn that _goddamn music down_ … but no, Xander was working and Willow always said you have to have a work ethic. In fact, he was technically working two jobs at once – serving fru-fru drinks to men who were too fascinated by their own dicks to even notice if a Gurunga demon grabbed the mic and started belting out Whitney Houston … which lead to his thinking about his _other_ job. Jenna had said to keep an eye on the Hellmouth – which was what, exactly? Wait until something scary came along and said, "Why hello! Don't mind me, I'm just going to open up an inter-dimensional hell underneath this mass of writhing bodies. Oh, you need to call your boss? Right-o, I'll wait here for you to finish, then."

Xander paused mid-mental-rant and considered. Actually, judging on the types of supposed evil masterminds he'd encountered in Sunnydale, that probably wasn't too far off the mark. After all, the Mayor was many things, an evil snake beast being one of them, but he was defiantly the most polite guy Xander had ever met. On the other hand, Spike, the supposed socially and morally sensitive vampire, was the rudest and single most irritating person he'd ever come across. So. Overview, conclusion, analysis?

He really, really wanted some painkillers.

"Hey, Alex!" that voice, _that voice_, called from somewhere over his left shoulder. Xander shut his eyes, breathed, plastered a blank look on his face and turned - to see Spike leering at him, flanked by the blonde from the diner and two other men he didn't recognise. The man on Spike's right was quite tall, with dark hair, gorgeous features and **fuck me** eyes. Trust Spike to pick up beautiful men like loose change.

Spike, noting his intent look, winked, "Not got a kiss for me, love?" _I hate Spike, I hate Spike, I hate …_  
Xander grinned, grabbed Spike's shirt and pulled him over the bar with a little more force than was necessary. Well. Maybe a lot more force than was necessary.

"Always got a kiss for you, Will," vindictive pleasure flashed through him in the subtle narrowing of Spike's eyes before Xander attacked his mouth with a kiss that had some of the patrons cheering.

'Alex' was kissing Spike for all he was worth, putting on a show for the onlookers. That what deep undercover work was – shows, deception and brief snatches of honesty thrown in just to make it all the more confusing. Sometimes the lines became blurred, the definitions of relationships were questioned – sometimes in moments like this, when Spike was _burning, scorching, blinding_ him with his touches it was easy to forget. Easy to believe for just a moment that they had something like love – but love can't exist when it's all a lie. So, Xander reminded himself that he wasn't kissing Spike, Alex was kissing Will. Things were simpler that way – usually.

But right then, with Spike's tongue in his mouth and Xander's hands tangled in Spike's hair he allowed himself to forget, if only for a second. After all, he reasoned, it had to _look_ like they really loved each other.

As Brian looked on at the two men, groping each other with desperate abandon on top of the bar – bleach hair clashing with black, tanned skin sliding over unnaturally white, he came to a realization.

His Really Shitty Day? It had just got a hell of a lot worse.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

"Scotch, straight up," someone said, causing Xander to blink, double take. _Scotch_? Who was this merciful God who didn't demand ten syllable drinks in a nasal voice? He turned with the drink held reverently in his hands only to see the same guy Spike had walked in with earlier in the evening.

"Brian," the guy said, an artful glance over Xander's body, pausing at his hipbones that peaked out of his trousers. Xander glanced up to see Spike staring at them now from across the room, one arm slung over Justin's shoulder, the other angled _just so_, so that a triangle of his taught stomach could be licked or …

"Alex," … ander. Alex, Alexander, Xander, Lex … so many characters, so many names that Xander wasn't always sure which he one he was. 

"Yeah, I know," Brian said with a grim twist of his lips as he nodded towards Spike who was laughing as he was pulled to the dance floor by Justin. Something flared in Xander but was gone before he cared to identify it. "What time do you _get off_?" and the pun is lame, the innuendo heavy, but Brian is gorgeous enough to pull it off.

"5:00. With _him_," Xander said with a teasing smile of his own, nodding to where Spike was dancing. Dancing being a very loose term for the gyrating, hip thrusting, epitome of obscenity that Spike was engaging in with a dark haired beauty – having abandoned Justin, who was 'dancing' with a stunning young man himself.

Brian smiled, communicating everything Xander felt in that moment.

They were having a really shitty night.

Xander snarled absently at the keys in his hand that stubbornly refused to fit into the lock. Somewhere in one of Giles's musty old books, Xander thought there must have been a section dedicated to the dastardly, fiendish creature; Keydius. A tiny demon who lived in keys and used it's evil magic to make the key shift into different dimensions when you're looking for it, then convince you you're losing your mind when you find them in the freezer hours later. This demon also the keys shrink and grow so they wouldn't fit in the right locks just to irk the poor owner - to slowly drive them insane until they decide to eat the keys one by one, crunching on the metal and cackling with bleeding gums and … 

Spike silently snatched the keys from Xander's grip and smoothly opened the door. Xander hated it when he did that.

"I hate it when you do that," he said, shuffling inside with his eyes narrowed.

"Do what? Open the door? Christ, you're a grumpy sod," Spike growled, slamming the door behind him and throwing his coat onto one of the many impersonal ikea chairs littered about the apartment.

"Have fun tonight, sweetie?" Xander spat, flopping onto a black suede couch - feeling his feet throb as though they had a pulse of their own. He had a vague notion of bending over to remove the restrictive boots, but thought better of it knowing his back would be shot and there was probably no way he could bend that far without popping his spleen – his trousers were unnervingly tight. Fuck. He was old. He was old, feeble and why was it that Spike always looked like he'd just recently been ravaged?

"What crawled up your arse and died, Harris?" Spike asked irritably, hand on his hip, head cocked, looking like a furious housewife. As much as it would usually delight Xander to inform him of it and scoff for a day or so thereafter but he was tired, pissed off at nothing in particular and his feet hurt.

"I don't know," he said finally, suppressing an apology. Wild, passionate, kisses and gropes were all well and good in public, but behind the scenes things were the same as they always had been. 

"You should start wearing balm again. Your lips are chapped. Makes me think of lizard skin when I'm trying to snog you," Spike commented absently, switching on the television. Well. Maybe things weren't _exactly_ as they'd always been.

"What time is it?" Xander asked as Spike settled on an old episode of _I Love Lucy_.

"Six," Spike said, shifting so that his legs had fallen open lewdly and a cigarette twitched in his fingers. 

"I should call the Boss, give him an initial report," Xander muttered, wincing when he realised that would mean fishing his mobile phone from his pocket. His pocket that was plastered to his with sweat and a spilt martini.

"Probably," Spike agreed, legs sliding apart a little further as he kicked a boot up onto the coffee table and rested his palm on his crotch. Xander heaved a sigh.

"You have to write your initial report of the possible locations of the Hellmouth," he said, knowing that in the end, he would be the one to write it. He always was.

"I reckon its directly beneath the backroom," Spike replied, rolling his shoulders, taking a deep drag of the cigarette Xander was too tired to tell him to put out.

"When did you see the backroom?" Xander blurted out, horrified in instant later that he almost sounded _jealous_. Oh, hello doughnut boy, he who makes a total ass of himself! Wondering when you'd get here!

"I like it when you get possessive, pet," Spike said, eyes connecting for a second, just a second where Xander and Alex merged into one, horny and in love. Spike's eyes flicked downwards, his gaze moving over Xander's body, halting. "You should lay of the crisps. Getting a right gut on you," he said, eyes flicking back to Lucy who was making a face at the camera.

Xander took the moment to remind himself that the Boss wouldn't be pleased it there was nothing but a neat pile of ash on their new ikea armchair.

He dragged himself to his feet and wrestled his phone from his pocket, punching in the familiar number. An hour and twenty minutes later, he was lying in bed with a snoring vampire. Why did Spike snore, anyway? It wasn't like he needed to breathe.

As he was finally drifting off to sleep, Xander realised somewhere in the back of his mind that the snoring had stopped, which probably meant Spike snored on purpose when Xander was awake, just to piss him off. This in turn meant that the blue orbs floating in the darkness a few inches from his face probably meant Spike was awake and watching him – a pastime that fell _well_ into the creepy category.

Xander was asleep before he was angry.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

"Stop picturing it," Xander snapped, not looking up from making himself a sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly – the only kind he could make without having to protect it because Spike had declared P&B sandwiches to be "foul and more disgustingly devious than Darla, may her not-soul suffer in flames."

"Stop picturing what?" Spike asked, and he didn't even _try_ for innocent this time. Just smirked, shut his eyes and started picturing _it_ again, humming Cradle of Love, Billy Idol, something he usually sang in the shower and wow, did Xander hate that he knew that.

"Stop it, freak!" he threw a spoon as that was the first thing that came to hand, but it bounced off Spike's chest and clattered to the floor uselessly. Stupid cutlery. Stupid cutlery for not making Spike bleed, stupid keys for being lost _again_ (on to you, Keyius), stupid peanut butter being the smooth kind instead of the crunchy kind he liked, stupid … Xander ran out of stupids and settled for glaring. "I mean it, Spike. Quit imagining it," he said, low threatening voice and calculated stare that he held for four seconds – long enough to be menacing.

"Can't control my mind. Can't help if I see you in all sorts of compromising positions with Rupert," Spike said lasciviously, waggling his eyebrows. Xander threw the jar of peanut butter. Spike caught it. Xander was far too tired to try and hurl something else, so words became his friends.

"Giles is like my dad!" Xander grumbled wincing as the image of Giles, hair wild, glasses on the floor, licking sharp scotch off his lips, running his fingers over … nonono, stop, bad thoughts, _Father Figure_.

"Like your dad, perhaps. But he isn't. Therefore, fair game. After all, Angel was sort of like my Grandda for a while and we certainly fu …" 

"Stop, now," Xander said, a tad on the hysterical side now as he squished his sandwich and concentrated very hard on Not Thinking.

"Strike a nerve, dear," Spike sneered, sneered because that was his thing and Xander just _knew_ this was revenge for what had happened the night before.

"Are you still pissed about that thing I said to the guys?" Xander asked through a mouthful of sandwich and a determined chorus of 'Giles is a father figure, Giles is a father figure,' chanted through his brain.

"What thing?" Spike asked, seeming utterly unperturbed to the causal observer. Xander wasn't a casual observer, not anymore. He noticed the way Spike inhaled a little more sharply when he lifted his cigarette to his lips, the slight tightening of his jaw.

"The thing where I told them you were the bottom, that you acted tough but actually was the one who gagged for it, no pun intended," he replied calmly and they both knew it so _was_ intended. He leant against the kitchen counter, cool and collected with a hint of bemusement – oh yeah, Alex was so very good at this.

"M' not annoyed. Why would I be? I know it's not true, I'm never a bottom," flick of the cigarette, ash on the kitchen floor and Spike shifted so that his boots were on the table. All designed to irk Xander, to make him the vulnerable one – but for once, he could see it.

"No?" Xander replied placidly, setting the sandwich down. This was a battle of wills, a challenge of sorts, one he couldn't afford to lose. Spike smirked _the_ smirk, the one that was hard, unflinchingly cruel, the one he always flashed before he said something truly horrendous.

"No. Just ask Buffy," he said, flicking more ash onto the floor, blowing the smoke directly at Xander's face. Baiting, triumphant look in his eyes because this was The Thing that sat between them, The Thing that had prompted Xander to leave Sunnydale in the first place. Xander knew that in that specific moment, he could kill Spike and never look back, move to Asia, get a new job and send the Boss a postcard.

But Xander wasn't playing this game, Alex was. So, he smiled, leant in until he was inches away from Spike's face.

"Know why Buffy felt so guilt-ridden Spike? Because she was taking advantage of a _helpless animal_, one who begged to be beaten just so he could be touched," he whispered.

The silence was deafening. Spike leant in closer still so that his eyelashes brushed across Xander's cheek like a dying moth and their lips touched, but didn't meet.

"I got over her. You never will," he panted, voice brittle, eyes shut and they were kissing as he spoke, hard and uncaring kisses that bruise in the morning but there was that screaming charged _heat_ and …

Xander's cell phone rang.

Spike pulled back with a jerk, knocking his chair over as he swept out of the apartment, slamming the door so hard it shuddered on its hinges. Xander was left standing alone, confused and miserable with a raging hard on caused by a guy he was supposed to hate. "Wow," he muttered sardonically, "It's just like high-school."


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

"We have to do it, Spike. We have to make sure everyone's safe whilst blending in - a parade of people wandering around the streets at night _on to top of a hellmouth_? It's just asking for trouble," Xander said wearily, running a hand through his hair. Four hours ago, this conversation had been hilarious. Amusing. _Be_musing. Other words for The Funny. But now? Well, anything lost it's shiny coating after discussing (read: screamingyellingbloodymuder) about it for four hours straight. The night they'd kissedmauledtore at each other was a week ago, and neither had menioned it since then, choosing to avoid each other except for the occasional dig and scornful glance. Well. Until the current fiasco.

Spike took a deep, unnecessary breath and steadied himself.

"Get it through your thick skull, Harris. I'm not going to wear that sodding _dress_ for anybody," he ground out, each word said with more venom than the last. Yeah, four hours ago, Xander was laughing at that _exact_ look of horror, disgust and the artful touch of indignation. However, there was only so many times you could hear the word 'dress' with an obscenity prefacing it before you wanted to go and attempt an easier task. Like bashing through a brick wall with a toothbrush, for instance.

"The drag queens are the only ones allowed all access passes to all the floats, which is what we need. This is sort of necessary - the Boss wouldn't ask us to do it otherwise," he said slowly, reasonably, nodding towards the fuchsia dress and acrid green feather boa lying on the couch.

"_Us_?" Spike hissed, "_Me_, you mean! Why can't you be the one to wear that fucking thing?" he asked, looking close to spitting in fury. Xander moved his coffee out of spitting distance and pushed his chair back a little - with Spike, one could never be too careful.

"Because a)I make a really ugly woman,"

"Make an ugly man too, but that doesn't bloody stop you," Spike muttered.

"... b)If there _is_ demon trouble, you're the better fighter of the two of us,"

"Too right, nancy boy,"

"... and c)I can't walk in heels, whereas, you can. And notice I'm pointedly not asking about that," Xander said, hint of glee - sure this was tiring after four continuous hours, but you know ... Spike in drag? Always a rather cheery prospect. "Besides - that colour would look better on you," he said, nodding to the cheap satin ball-gown. Spike gave him a look so black, Xander had to fight the urge to get out of the way. Once a boy of the hellmouth, always a boy of the ... Spike was smiling and oh God, why was Spike smiling?

"You ever seen Rupert's photo albums, Xander?" he asked suddenly, honey sweet voice, tilt of his head and Xander _knew_ something bad was about to happen. "I have. Maybe I should call him - get some makeup tips and such. He would know - there's more than one picture of him traipsing about in a red corset and fishnets in there," he said sincerely, ring of absolute truth to his tone as he watched Xander's left eye twitch.

"Bullshit," he said, pleaded, near _begged_ because now Spike had destroyed the already sullied, grimy mental image of his tweed-clad mentor. Spike grinned. Didn't reply. He stood, gave the dress one more disdainful glance before sweeping out the door.

As Xander poured himself a drink, he concentrated on spelling out the names of various demons, on the prices of hideous lamps on the Shopping Channel and on reciting every phone number he knew in various tones of desperation. He didn't think about fishnet stockings or deep red lipstick laced with spit smeared across his collar bone.

Spike was wearing a dress.

Xander should have _known_ something terrible would ensue - the event was an unmistakable sign of Bad. But hadn't. Known, that is. He hadn't known something bad was going to happen, hadn't had an inkling, hadn't been able to _think_ what with the fact that Spike was wearing a dress. And it wasn't the fuschia ballgown, either.

He stood out in the crowd of garish colours, of men in warped depictions of femininity, of constant neon buzzing movement. No wig, just his own hair dyed silver as he stood with his eyebrow cocked, a black velvet gown not dissimilar to something Drusilla would wear, clinging to every muscle of his body. A metal hoop in his eyebrow glinted in the dim light cast from the windows of the club behind them and another curled around his bottom lip. Xander was horrified, laughing, unable to hide the suspicious bulge in his jeans.

_Spike was wearing a dress._

"No boobs?" he managed to say, a gesture to the general area. Spike narrowed his eyes.

"No boobs," he confirmed, pulling at the sleeves of the dress, gothic points and Medieval beauty. Giles and his corset be damned - the vision in front of him was going to take _months_ to get over.

"Where are you hiding the stake?" he asked, rhetorical question because he probably didn't want to know the answer. "Your lipstick is ..." no mockery as he leant forwards, lifted his hand to fix the slight smudge of silver on Spike's skin. Eyes framed in thick coal black blinked back at him, an animal backed into the corner, primal energy Xander would never understand pulsing, beckoning ...

Xander caught himself, snatched his hand back and reminded himself of who he was. The moment was over and the world around them seemed to wake up, to start moving again.

"You realise you said the day you wore a 'sodding dress' would be the day you'd promise to write all the progress reports," he said, words sharp and plastic in the air, unnatural.

"I said '_that_ sodding dress'. Not wearing that disgusting thing, am I? Where did you get that dress anyway - the wardrobe of an over the hill whore? You didn't tell me you paid your mother a visit," Spike replied, words turned to mist in the cold of Pittsburgh and dissolved inches away from Xander's mouth. It was freaky how no more mist followed - Spike didn't need to draw breath, didn't need to exhale it. He was alien, and had never looked more the part.

"Keep going, Spike. Make my night. After all, I'm the one with a camera and no incentive not to use it," Xander replied, more words to come, designed to be hurled in anger only he wasn't quite angry. Which was strange in itself.

"Take as many pictures as you like, pet. I look better in this than you do on your best day," he replied, slick sarcasm and dangerous flex of his jaw. Xander took pity on him, handed him a packet of cigarettes he'd picked up on his way out. Spike snatched them without so much as a grunted 'thanks' and muttered something about how he wasn't getting paid enough.

"Love the shoes," Xander added, raised eyebrow when he glanced at the leather beetle-crushers that poked out from beneath teh dress - Spike looked like a walking contradiction.

"You look fucking _amazing_!" Debbie's voice rode over Spike's reply and his expression rippled, changed into the suitable mask as he turned to face the woman decorated in so many gay rights badges Xander wondered how she could withstand the wieght.

"Thanks luv," he said, smile that didn't look entirely forced. "Thought I'd show these old slappers and tarts how it's done," he added, nodding towards the men with powdered faces and blue wigs clamber undaintily from the floats and into the surging crowds gathered around them, men and women dancing and kissing, laughing, _living_.

"Baby, you blew them out of the water!" Debbie squealed, motherly affection as she patted Spike's cheek, "Though I'm sure that's not all you're gonna blow," she added, glancing at Xander with a knowing look and a wink that made him want to hide. "Last year you would have had some serious competition - my son, Mikey? Most beautiful fucking queer in the city when he dons the dress," she gushed, more motherly affection and Xander wasn't sure what to say. 

"'Course he was. Your kid, isn't he?" Spike said with a winning smile, all charm and sincerity that Xander never had, could only emulate on occasion.

Xander comforted himself by patting his pocket, feeling the heavy weight of the camera there. Oh yeah. He was going to need double prints of Spike's Drag Queen Adventure.

Little did he know that two short hours later, the camera would be the last thing on his mind.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight **

Xander's hand was green and there were colours swimming in dots on his shirt. That, he reasoned, was Not Good. When the floor started to dance without him and the black swirling colours clashing with silver started to circle his head, he started to realise that this was in fact Really Not Good, and possibly of the demon variety, which would suck because there was no way Spike could accomplish a high kick wearing the dress. Unless he were to hike it up his knees and … oh, unseemly thoughts.

Actually, the unseemly thoughts had pretty much began when Spike had caught him staring as they checked the perimeter of the club and had struck a pose, moment of intensity and silver slices upon black as though he'd fallen from the moon. Then he'd wiggled his pink tongue and sneered "Like what you see, Harris?" and Xander shook hands with familiar old Sexual Tension, a solemn little man who reveled in Xander's suffering. Usually, Xander would turn away and banish the naughty thoughts, because he didn't want to think of Spike that way, because he was an I evil, soulless demon /I and dammit, if Xander didn't have his principles he didn't have anything. So. He'd followed through with the ritual, snark and distain as he turned on his heel and ignored the bulge in his trousers, tried to forget the velvet sliding across pale skin and the unholy balance of cruelty and innocence. Because he had his principles.

Odd how suddenly, as his hand turned green and the world slammed around him, principles seemed very, very dull.

His arms left tracks in the air as they moved, his hips tingling with warmth that spread to his back and almost felt like hands on his ass, grinding friction against his front … well, it may have been the dancing or the two men either side of him looking pink as they played a fun sort of game with Xander's groniy area. Which was fine with him. Mainly because the music wasn't too loud, his feet didn't hurt and he was recording _West Wing_ , so Old Fogie Xander had turned into Groovy Alex, he of the grooves, smooth skin and trousers way too low on his hips. This was utter distraction. This was fun. And actually, a little painful when he felt himself being yanked to the left, cool rush of air before a thump of contact with a soft black caress and a face carved out of marble.

"Are you wearing any underwear?" he breathed into Spike's ear, sloppy wet tongue stripe against the cool skin that glistened purple. Xander supposed this was probably all to do with Pride as there he'd never seen such a rainbow of colours that all seemed to pirouette over surfaces. Wow, ballet references. The Gay was leaking into his thoughts now, even his metaphors, precious slices of amusement to push him through the day were being lost to the pink fuzzies. Or was that a band?

"Never wear underwear around you pet – know you like it," came the coy reply, loud enough to be heard, eruption of catcalls and roving eyes that made the air shimmer and move like water through the club, sliding in and out of Xander's mouth. Like air fucking. Oh, back with the unseemly now, and still not quite able to regret it.

"What's wrong with you? Told you not to drink anything, we're supposed to be on top form tonight," Spike hissed in his ear, strong arms around his hips, moving up towards his chest which was frustrating because Xander wanted the hands to move I down and … "You're _high_?" Spike spat, fury now, barely reigned as he roughly pulled Xander up when he started to find his feet sinking into the floor. "You lecture me on responsibility for four _fucking hours_ , you convince me to wear a frock, you tell me not to drink tonight and you _get high_?!" Spike's voice had risen now, sharp edge and a bitter ring. It all seemed a little silly – like he was overreacting. It wasn't as though _he'd _never got drunk when they were supposed to be working. It wasn't as if _he'd _never moved on the dance floor, undulating under lights and hands, taunting and teasing, eyes flicking to Xander's with a pointed grin. No. Bad thoughts, made him feel annoyed and Xander wanted to be Groovy Alex, wanted the men back, wanted to be worshipped, adored and _holy fuck_ his hand was green.

Xander pulled his eyes back up, watched Spike's mouth form words but couldn't quite hear them, soft silver smudge against metal curl on his lip, colour blending, making him look like some sort of furious ghost. Xander watched his hand (the notgreen one) drift up to Spike's shoulder and pull back the thick material, pull it down so he could see the bare muscled arm and the name written on it. Alex's. Not Xander's. Ah. Mood killer right there.

"What did you take? Xa … Alex, what did you take?" sharp sting on his cheek and hey, did Spike just _slap him_? Oh, he'd pay for that one, Xander was a grown up now – Zeppo carefully hidden and wrapped beneath layers of clothes that didn't blind you to look at, beneath a tanned toned exterior that could seriously kick ass when ... alright, _ow_.

"Enough with the bitch slapping!" too tired to be really angry, mumbled protest as his head spun ans the Groovy Happy Fun started to make him feel a little sick. He wanted to sit down. Preferably in an ice block. With a stock pile Tylenol.

_"Is he okay?"_

_"Someone call an ambulance!" _

"Xander, what did you take?" deliberate words snapped into his ear as he felt his legs do the whammy on him and give out. Oh. Hello Mr. Floor, soon you may meet Madame Vomit – but first, meet Xander's face.

"… and all hell broke loose. Was terrified," Spike said sincerely, bovver boots on the hospital bed and the end of his dress draped over the sheets.

"You were worried about me?" Xander croaked, eyebrow raised and a pointed cough when Spike fiddled with his cigarette packet.

"Who said anything about you? I saw a six foot four, part demon Marilyn Monroe hike her skirts up and kick the shit out of a Turalag demon. Was one of the most fucking terrifying sights of my unlife. Glorious, though - you wouldn't believe how easy it is to puncture a lung with those red heels," he said, eyes averted to the wall, uncomfortable shift in his seat.

"Aw," because recovering from a spiked beer or not (_never _going to drink again – or at least for a week), Xander could always pull off the sarcasm. "You were worried about me," attempt at laughter quickly smothered by more coughing. He felt like he'd eaten glass. Spike wordlessly passed him a plastic cup of warm water, small shrug when Xander stared at him over the rim of the cup.

"Having a pipe shoved down your throat ain't fun. Unless of course, there's an excitable lass pouring blood and tequila into the pipe," he said nostalgically. Xander winced.

"Kinky," he said, twist of his mouth as he fought a smile.

"Says the lad who nearly fucked a praying mantis," prepared reply, like he anticipated the answer. Spike often guessed the next words, the next quip. They both did that. Probably because they spent way more time with each other that would be considered healthy. The silence continued, no tension there, but still charged. Always charged.

"So these three Turalag demons tried to …?" he asked, voice slightly less scratchy and a little too loud as he handed the cup back.

"Just the usual. Open up the Hellmouth, portal of doom, all that rot. Got no sodding imagination, Turalag. Just stormed into the back room and started the ritual. Old Marilyn and I kicked up a storm, got everyone out and believing they were some morons on LSD," Spike said dismissively, bored appearance betrayed by the gleam in his eyes that appeared after a good dose of violence. "The lads in the backroom got quite a shock – were really caught with their pants down," he added, the pun so bad Xander could only groan and narrow his eyes.

"Spike! You'd better not be making him groan in there like I think you are – the doctor said he needed rest!" Debbie called through the door, muffled voice as she knocked. Spike grinned,

"Boy just needs some exercise, Deb," he said as she walked in, arms laden with a basket of flowers. She set them down by the bed, kissed Spike's cheek as she went past, flurry of movement and ginger hair, warm affection tangible as she rubbed her lipstick off Spike's cheek and he looked perfectly happy to let her. They were smitten. Xander noted that and vowed to tease Spike about it. Later.

For now, he prepared himself for motherly bustling and talk of how much Mariana sauce she was going to feed him when he got better.


	9. Chapter 9

**Part IX**

Brian hated hospitals. He hated that if he was in a hospital it meant something was wrong and there was no one he could do or shout at to get it fixed. The rhythmic drone through the speakers shuddered through his head, grey chairs bound in silver duct tape and Jesus, even the fucking _paintings_ made him consider shoving a pencil through his forehead.

In short; hospitals fucking sucked, and Brian wanted to fuck and be sucked until his brains were spilling onto white tiles and the world left him in peace, if only for a moment.

"I'm going to get us some coffee," Mikey said eventually, hair ruffled and tell tale smudges around his eyes – he'd scrubbed the off the make-up with a towel in the car but you could still see it if you looked, pink brands of a fag for all the world to see. Luckily, nobody in hospitals really looked - they had other things on their minds. Things like warm gurgling red spilling through soft blonde hair. "He's fine," Mikey repeated for what, the fiftieth time in as many seconds?

"I know." Brian did know, logically. He knew those junkies, _green skin and teeth, what were the dealers putting into good old fashioned acid these days?_, had only given Justin a shallow cut with a cla … knife. _Knife_. Silver flash of a _blade_, not a claw, monsters weren't fucking real unless they had a bottle of jack in one hand and a mean left hook. Christ.

He looked around desperately, only saw fat nurses and a crusty old doctor. Nobody to distract him. He'd been here before – the night Justin was bashed, metal baseball bat to the head. Sitting here with a silk scarf stained with Justin's blood, head against the cool tile, swirl of colour, sickly sweet smell of hot copper pennies and … oh, well this was just a fucking _lovely_ way to spend an evening.

"Justin said he'll be out after the stitches, mate." Brian looked up sharply, saw sprayed silver hair that hurt his eyes in florescent light. He didn't reply, didn't try to hide his analytical stare as the man slumped beside him, velvet of his dress sliding down the pleather chair. Cheap, squeaky pleather seating. Just what Brian needed to top off a hellish evening.

"How is …" Brian was never good with names, never really needed to learn names of tricks and old habits die hard. But the tattoo-- "Alex?"

"All right. Bad reaction to E, probably some GHB thrown in there for laughs. Whole sodding alphabet in his drink, so they had to pump his stomach. Keeping him overnight," Spike replied, words tight and skin pale. His lips looked the colour of faded coral:his lipstick smudged in a silver swipe across his cheekbone. Androgynous elegance with big ugly boots poking from beneath a soft black gown. Spike let his legs slide open, dropped his head back and exposed the perfect arch of his neck. Temptation, distraction, right there beside him. Opportunity to take, release from the shuttered clicks of the camera in his mind, shuffling through the images of dark hospitals corridors and whirring green beeps on a little black monitor.

"Brian?" his gaze snapped back to the blonde boy standing in the corridor.

A flippant, "Finally," was all Brian muttered as he slid to his feet and pulled a hand through his hair. Justin rolled his eyes and talked to Spike for a minute, asked him how Alex was, but Brian didn't care enough to listen. He had more important things to think about – like how his eyes were inexplicably drawn the criss cross of black stitches in Justin's arm. Stupid little fucker got in the way of the knife when he should have _moved_ and let Brian take it. He'd taken worse, probably deserved it. Justin didn't.

"Take your boy home, he looks like shit," Spike said. It wasn't until they got into their apartment that Brian realised he'd been talking to Justin.

Xander hated hospitals. Didn't take a genius to figure out why. Insurance companies probably had his name in big block capitals in every office in the northern hemisphere with the words "Don't Insure This Moron" placed neatly beneath his picture – after all, he was in the hospital at least once a week.

Cut in my leg? Slipped on a loose tile. Broken nose? Run in with a door. Oh, the canine shaped puncture wounds on my neck and shoulder? Overly enthusiastic hamster – rabies shot? Uh, did I say hamster? I meant overly enthusiastic boyfriend. Yeah, I'm pretty sure he doesn't have rabies, thanks. 

Excuses, evasive tactics and outright lies had all lead to helping his new career as Xander Harris, master bullshitter. However, this was probably the first time in years Xander didn't have to lie to the pigs in suits. Coppers. The Fuzz. Xander was also beginning to realise he was steadily being assimilated to the scone eating, soccer playing nation - because seriously, he'd never thought of cops as 'The Bill' before he'd been shoved into a small room with a certain bleached bastard. Damn Spike and his stupid BBC, with the gardening, home improvement and East Enders.

So, back to the 'not lying'. He had spent an hour giving descriptions of the man who had passed him the drink (about 5'6, white, blonde, didn't ask for his name), trying to recall his new address (apartment 34B, Christoff building, Liberty Ave.) and ignoring Spike's snorts of disgust and muttered comments at his stupidity for accepting the drink in the first place ("think you'd have bloody well learnt _something_ after all this time").

After they'd left, Spike had seemed to work himself into a fury and demanded a reason for why Xander had been such an idiot. Well, actually, his version had a lot more snarling and expletives (not all in English) but 'idiot' was the TV friendly version. Xander hadn't replied, just pulled his underwear on and glared miserably at the only pair of trousers available – tight, uncomfortable, stains down the front. Not to mention the shirt that was stained and ripped, totally unsalvageable. Spike had flung a bundle of loose clothes at his chest without a word, picked up his skirts and stomped outside. Which was actually a pretty funny sight.

Spike had caught his arm on the walk home, tight and painful as he hauled Xander upright a moment before he fell. After three tumbles Spike grabbed him and pulled him to his side, falling into step and letting Xander use him as a crutch. The only thing he said the whole way back was "not a sodding word", so Xander decided it may be a good idea to try that whole 'quiet contemplation' thing.

On the first day back at the apartment, not word between them. Sure, they'd publicly been the battered couple, were still the prettiest poster children for 'resilient monogamy' on Liberty Ave, hot and possessive. Behind closed doors there was only civility. Spike would ignore him for hours then politely inform him he was stepping out to get a drink with cold distance. Alex would reply with similar indifference, sipping on a warm beer. Xander would quietly freak out. On the second day of silence he would have given his other eye to get a snarl, an insult, a hurled inanimate object in the vicinity of his head … _something_ to show Spike cared.

It wasn't until the third evening that Xander found the tube of edible silver body paint sitting at the back of the fridge. That? Was pretty intriguing. When he pulled it out, he found that some had already been used. Now, that? Was downright titillating. He sat heavily on the couch, ignored the spindly Ikea legs whine beneath him, and let his eyes wander to the flickering pictures of Nate re-decorating Oprah's wardrobe, like any self respecting gay man was required to do. Xander was dutifully noting that Nate had a nice ass when the door was flung open and Spike stormed past him. Looking wet and slippery.

"Terribly weather we're having," Alex said, calm, sardonic and ready to let a few hours pass before the subject of the edible body paint was addressed. Xander watched Nate's ass and tried really hard not to notice Spike flinging his soaking shirt onto the floor, now half naked wet and slippery standing far too close for comfort.

"I didn't notice," Spike replied, sarcasm dripping to the carpet with the beads of rain. Alex smirked, Xander gulped, both considered the psychiatric bills for multiple personality disorder were going to be a _bitch_. Spike walked to the fridge, probably intending on pulling out a pack of AB positive. Opportunity knocked, Xander nearly fell over himself as he ran to the door to oblige.

"Looking for something silver?" he asked, clicking the television to mute. Spike froze. "Don't even _try_ and claim you like it on toast. That didn't work with the strawberry lube, either," he continued, raised eyebrow and leg propped on the table as he leant back, because two could play at that game.

"Used it for slap at the parade," Spike replied, rushed words as he crossed his arms over his pale chest, halo of white curls and lips protruding in a pout of defiance. "Didn't have any lippie, so I used the body paint – edible, so I wouldn't catch something dire," spark of inspiration and lies painfully transparent. The eyebrow rose further and no words were required. Alex picked up the tube, twirled it in his fingers.

"Looks like you've been hiding things, partner. You know, you've been really quiet since I talked to the cops about my little … adventure. Wanna talk about it?" a challenge had been issued, sharp and mocking. Spike's expression slipped into something else, something harder, smoother.

"I can hide whatever I like, _Alex_. This partnership is professional – get paid, fed and the soul's wails are smothered when I'm off saving people and the like. You know that, you knew it well enough when you went to get yourself a piece of fun with that wanker at the club. This isn't real, remember? We aren't real." hiss of anger betraying the customary sneer.

"No need get all existential on me," was probably the most cowardly answer Xander had ever come up with, but his mind was still trying to wrap around the words. Because Spike sounded oddly … well, jealous was a word that sprang to mind. It was only when Spike began to walk towards him that Xander realised he had no idea what else to say.

"But do you really want to know, _baby_?" menace with every step, muscles tense beneath his skin and Xander sat up, remembered what Spike was, soul or no soul.

"No …"

"I bought it that night and smeared it down my chest …"

"Spike, I don't want to …"

"… down my cock, Xan, just for you …"

"God, Spike …"

"… always for you – was going to show you that night until you decided you wanted some stranger's hands on you instead of mine. And you don't see it, because you're so fucking _blind_ - tell me, did the monster take your other eye too?"

"… I couldn't know! You never told me …"

"Of course I fucking told you! I kissed you, held you, screamed at you, bled for you. But you never looked, never wanted to see …"

"… would you stop interrupting me?!"

"Why, so you can interrupt me?!"

And just like that, something switched. They were both on their feet, bristling energy and a crackling charge moving through the air around them. He didn't have time to dodge the punch, and Spike was too wrapped up in himself to expect the kick that knocked against his leg and sent him crashing to the floor. They scratched punched and bit, hellcats writhing on the floor, primal and pulsing. Xander's shirt was ripped off, teeth scraping across his chest and his fingers were tangled in coarse hair, head thrown back as cold hands settled across his thighs, pulled at his jeans and tugged them open roughly.

Alex was already wondering about what the Boss would say, assessing how this new development would effect their dynamic and the mission. Xander was far too distracted by the tongue dragging on muscle to worry about anything at all. Neither noticed the cell phone's insistent ring – some things would have to wait.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

In three hours, Xander had discovered more things about Spike than he'd ever wanted to.  
He knew that Spike had extremely sharp elbows.  
He knew that Spike loathed having his neck bitten, which contradicted just about every 'vampire sex theory' ever created.  
He knew Spike said, "Jesus wept" just before he came.  
He knew that Spike loved him.

He didn't know what to say.

He was a funny guy. He could twist words, abuse grammar, wiggle his eyebrows and voila, observe the funny. On the darkest days, in the bleakest hours, he could always find an odd voice within him whispering stupid jokes and lame lines to desperately try and hide his fear.

In recent years the whole concept of humor had warped and shifted without his knowledge. 'The Funny' had descended from dryly delivered self-deprecation to something sharper, darker. Silly throwaway lines had died a death back in Sunnydale and now he was the man of snide remarks. It was all to do with age; a touch of insanity and the illegal pain medication Noah had slipped him after losing his eye. Xander had submitted a part of him to Alex, a silly part he never thought he'd miss. However, as he sat in awkward silence in the apartment, watching Spike flick his lighter and glare at the ceiling, he would have given anything to regain the ability to break tension.

"So … I have carpet burn. Think next time we could aim for the bed?"

Perhaps not the best conversation starter, but it was all he could come up with.

He pulled his up his trousers and stared resolutely at a filing cabinet in the corner. There was a discoloured stain that was just this side of disturbing, 6 scratches in the paint and a very small spider. Xander decided to call it Ernie.

"Probably a good plan," Spike muttered.

"Yeah." Xander was didn't quite feel brave enough to turn his head to the left and see the pale skin with splotches of purple, teeth marks and spit, sex and … okay, back to Ernie the filing cabinet spider. It must be easy to be a spider – do a little sticky architecture, eat some flies on your lunch break, maybe meet a nice lady spider. Or a man spider, Xander was an equal opportunist, after all.

"Your mobile rang. When we were …" and Spike, who was supposed to be snarky and giving Xander pointers on his technique right about now, seemed to be having difficulty saying the word:

"Sex."

His cell rang again. Xander nearly leapt out of his skin.

"Alex …" squeaky voice! Bad vocal chords, bad fucking vocal chords! "Alexander," pitched lower, slick with professionalism. He could do this. He knew how to do this.

"I've been calling you for hours! _Hours_, Harris!"

Xander winced.

"Yeah, I was getting … I was busy with …"

"He was getting busy with it!" Spike pitched in helpfully, seeming to remember who he was. Xander threw back his elbow, aiming for a rib, but hit the corner of the coffee table instead. Spike snorted.

"We were at the club and the music was so loud I couldn't hear the phone .." a convincingly apologetic tone almost always worked on Jane.

"What, and pressing the 'vibrate' button was too much of a hassle? I've been working my ass off all night and you just had some fun with yours!"

"Jane, calm!"

"No Jane _not_ calm, Tarzan. I was worried! The last time you forgot to answer your phone was when you got drunk in Portland and ended up making out with Hans and we all know how _that_ turned out …"

"Not all of us do," Spike said, looking distinctly irritated. Xander grit his teeth and wondered if they could go back to that awkward silence thing. Emphasis on the silence.

"… with the bratwurst, which is both morally repugnant _and_ unhygienic …"

"Jane! What did you need to talk to me about?" professional again and with a hint of desperation. There was a harsh sigh and a shuffling of papers, which signified that although she was still angry, something was more important. Something deemed more important that Jane's wrath could only mean: "apocalypse, huh?"

Awkward 'morning after' talk would have to wait.

Thank God for apocalypses.

"I escape one Connor only to be confronted with his greasy haired, snot nosed, angst ridden little twin," Spike growled over his coffee, eyes narrowed when Hunter walked in.

"You're just pissed because he thinks I'm hotter than you," Xander muttered, not even looking up from the information sheets Jane had faxed him.

"I'd like to introduce him to a Tulrag demon. They eat the bollocks of pubescent boys - when they're still alive and squirmy."

See, Xander knew he should be jumping in here to protest. But it was hard because he sort of thought it wasn't too bad of an idea.

"Hey Xander," Hunter purred, hip cocked, tongue flashing over his teeth. He glanced disdainfully at Spike, throwing out a grudging, "Hey." 

Spike mouthed 'Tulrag' once more and nodded decisively.

"Hunter, I was wondering if you could help me with something," Xander began, pulling the photographs out of his briefcase (yes, _briefcase_, brown with initials engraved into the leather, tangible proof of his adulthood).

"I'll help you with _anything_ blondie can't handle," Hunter leered, careless youth and self assured naivety that kept him being afraid of the man sitting to his left who could easily snap his neck. Who wanted to do so.

"Do you know any of these guys?"

Six photographs, six faces. Boys, pretty ones. Hard eyes and a sneer. Street boys, hustlers. Hunter would know them – he was one of them.

"Why the fuck do you want to know? Aren't you supposed to be at work?" Suspicion, well founded, because what bartender kept photographs of missing hustlers in his briefcase? And why would a bartender need a briefcase?

"I freelance as a writer - am writing an article about hustlers," Spike said smoothly. Hunter frowned, ignored him completely, and missed the click of Spike's jaw as he ground his teeth.

"Today's my day off. I'm helping with research – sooner he gets the work done, the sooner we can go clubbing and fuck," casual crudeness, a laugh. Worked like a charm.

"Oh," Hunter still didn't look keen but he glanced at the photos. "My memory's a little fuzzy," he said, expectant grin. Xander pulled out his wallet, handed over a twenty. Hunter snatched it, studied the photographs more carefully. "Carlos. That fucker owes me money," he jabbed at the first photo _black hair, black eyes, no older than 16_. His gaze shifted to the next. "Will," he narrowed his eyes, didn't see Spike flinch. "Total asshole, thinks he's the shit. All these guys do - they run east street in the warehouse district, kick the living fuck out of you if you take their spot."

"That's exactly what I needed to know."

"Anytime – we could discuss this some more in private," leaning in, shamelessness that Xander usually equated with Spike. Not that he'd ever tell him that.

"He has everything he wants, kid. Now why don't you go play like a good boy," Spike said sweetly, edge to his words that not even Hunter could ignore. With a "whatever," and a sneer, he left.

"All the kids are from the same street – the demons must be 'gathering the debauched for sacrifice' from the same area, so their nest is probably nearby," he said quietly, gathering his things.

"You trust that little sod's word? For all we know he could be working with them, setting us up," Spike whispered furiously.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Jealous of him?" the words out of his mouth before he thought it through. Spike narrowed his eyes.

"What do _you_ think?" he snapped, utterly vulnerable though no less vicious. 

For the second time that morning, Xander didn't know what to say. He sipped his coffee despite the fact that it had gone cold hours ago.


End file.
